The Complete Poems of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow eBook

III

Yet not in vain, O River of Yesterday,
Through chasms of darkness to the deep
descending,
I heard thee sobbing in the rain, and
blending
Thy voice with other voices far away.
I called to thee, and yet thou wouldst not stay,
But turbulent, and with thyself contending,
And torrent-like thy force on pebbles
spending,
Thou wouldst not listen to a poet’s
lay.
Thoughts, like a loud and sudden rush of wings,
Regrets and recollections of things past,
With hints and prophecies of things to
be,
And inspirations, which, could they be things,
And stay with us, and we could hold them
fast,
Were our good angels,—­these
I owe to thee.

IV

And thou, O River of To-morrow, flowing
Between thy narrow adamantine walls,
But beautiful, and white with waterfalls,
And wreaths of mist, like hands the pathway
showing;
I hear the trumpets of the morning blowing,
I hear thy mighty voice, that calls and
calls,
And see, as Ossian saw in Morven’s
halls,
Mysterious phantoms, coming, beckoning,
going!
It is the mystery of the unknown
That fascinates us; we are children still,
Wayward and wistful; with one hand we
cling
To the familiar things we call our own,
And with the other, resolute of will,
Grope in the dark for what the day will
bring.

BOSTON

St. Bototlph’s Town! Hither across the
plains
And fens of Lincolnshire, in garb austere,
There came a Saxon monk, and founded here
A Priory, pillaged by marauding Danes,
So that thereof no vestige now remains;
Only a name, that, spoken loud and clear,
And echoed in another hemisphere,
Survives the sculptured walls and painted
panes.
St. Botolph’s Town! Far over leagues of
land
And leagues of sea looks forth its noble
tower,
And far around the chiming bells are heard;
So may that sacred name forever stand
A landmark, and a symbol of the power,
That lies concentred in a single word.

ST. JOHN’S, CAMBRIDGE

I stand beneath the tree, whose branches shade
Thy western window, Chapel of St. John!
And hear its leaves repeat their benison
On him, whose hand if thy stones memorial
laid;
Then I remember one of whom was said
In the world’s darkest hour, “Behold
thy son!”
And see him living still, and wandering
on
And waiting for the advent long delayed.
Not only tongues of the apostles teach
Lessons of love and light, but these expanding
And sheltering boughs with all their leaves
implore,
And say in language clear as human speech,
“The peace of God, that passeth
understanding,
Be and abide with you forevermore!”